


Colorless Tomes

by Rigil_Kentauris



Category: Fire Emblem Heroes
Genre: Court Politics, M/M, POV Second Person, Pre-Canon, alfonses family is much better than zachys, got jossed by book II sorry, not fluffy but is happy, so no character tag for him, zacharuno's not actually in this they just talk about him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2019-01-04 03:21:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12160485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rigil_Kentauris/pseuds/Rigil_Kentauris
Summary: He's betrothed to a girl from the edge of the kingdom. He's not happy about it.





	Colorless Tomes

**Author's Note:**

> guess who's been playing entirely too much crusader kings II? ya, me.  
> EDIT: HEADS UP guess who wrote this before book II came out? ya, me. HALP I BEEN JOSSED

He’s shown up to the meeting with more books than he can carry. In fact, he’s enlisted help. Several of the masons, the falconer, the damn astrologer sweeping in...

Although, looking at the matching determination the castle servants wear on their faces, perhaps _enlist_ wouldn’t be the best word. They’ve volunteered, the rebels.

You could hand Alfonse the letter and head this all off at the pass right now, but part of you still believes he'll settle down and accept things, or maybe, distant hope, he'll get over what had once been a simple, uncomplicated childhood infatuation. Hell, perhaps Zacharias will. How many days has it been since you last thought that kid caused too much trouble? Two? Three? Not nearly enough.

He thunks several of the tomes down on the oak table. The last book kicks up a cloud of dust when it lands, decades old fragments of paper and age puffing up from in between the covers, along with your vague and hopeless hopes.

You suspect the whole of the castle will know everything you’ve said before the hour is over, even though you know he’ll say nothing. Still, you wave them out. They leave, several squeezing Alfonse’s shoulder before they do.

“There is precedent,” he declares, opening the first book to the middle. “Year 112-”

“No,” you say, more out of routine than any belief he’ll listen.

 “-Kálfar and Ljósál. Warrior kings. United southern Askr. Peacefully passed the crown to Kálfar’s brother in 132.”

“Alfonse-” you interrupt.

“Year 298,” he says, flipping further through the book, reading rapidly. “The Raidwraith queens. Northern Askr. No known lineage, the kingdom went to Queen Sága, who rumors say wasn’t even _related_ to them.”

“Al-”

He’s on a roll now. “366. King Erland, who united Askr in the first place, and, as you know, chose _elective_ succession even though he had several heirs. And _none_ of this even touches on other kingdoms. _Embla,_ for example-”

You gently place a hand over the one he has flattened against the book. He walks around looking serious on the sunniest summer day, but the look on your son’s face right now is something deeper than that. He flicks his eyes up from the book, can only hold the contact for a second before he goes back to looking for solace in the books. And you begin to see the books for what they are. Not a stubborn attempt to challenge established order, not a meticulous effort to be prepared, but a disorganized attempt to reach for something, anything at all, anything that could counter an answer that he knows he’s got to listen to.

He doesn’t have to. That he doesn’t think of it that way never fails to make you proud. He’ll make a good king, one day.

“Those were times of peace,” you say softly, alert for any change in the way he’s standing, the way he’s pressing hard on the book, as if he’s having a hard time standing and that’s all that’s saving him from falling.

_“This_ is a time of peace,” he says, without looking up at you.

“I know,” you say. You don’t intend to sound sad about it, but you do anyway. These days, with Embla beside you, it’s never a time of peace.

And he knows this.

He closes the book, and pushes it aside. He stares down at the cover of the one underneath it.

“Sharena could inherit the kingdom,” he says quietly, one last attempt that isn’t going to work.

“Come here,” you say instead, and hold your arms out.

He crosses around the table in three short strides and drops into your arms. So long ago, you were his age. What would you have done, if you were him? You can’t recall. It had never been a question. Betrothed to the Askran queen before you really had a chance to think about it. Never a question. Things were simple, and easy.

You smooth his hair down. So long ago, you’d been his age, yet only yesterday, he’d been hardly able to walk, stomping around the castle and winning smiles from the court.

“It isn’t about precedent,” you say. “Or heritage. It’s about alliances.”

He’s grown enough not to say _it’s not fair._ You know he’s thinking it, though.

Or maybe he’s not. He stands up, frees himself from your arms. Looks past you with dull eyes, and nods with little energy in the motion.

“Yes, father,” he says. “I understand.”

He turns away from you and faces the books. Squares his shoulder and looks at them and tries to figure out what to do with them, now.

He’d misinterpret the letter. You know he would.

“Father,” he asks, remarkable control over his voice not keeping the slight waver from it. “May I return for these in a moment?”

“I’ll see to them,” you offer.

“I would-” he says, cutting himself off with a grimace. He locks his teeth together, takes a deep breath though his nose. When he looks at you again, he has his regular composure. Or, at least, the appearance of it.

“They’re my responsibility,” he says. “I’ll take care of them.”

“Certainly,” you say, hurting for him at the thought of him putting everything back, one by one. He shouldn’t have to go through this.

He doesn’t have to go through this.

And now it’s _you_ misinterpreting the letter.

“Alfonse,” you say, checking another sigh.

He stops his walking towards the door.

“Feh brought this earlier this morning.”

You pull the letter from your pocket, navy blue seal already broken. It has your name and titles written on it, but you hold it out to him anyway.

He takes it hesitantly, reads it slowly. Serious frown on his face shifting first to confusion, then apprehension, and finally, a cautious kind of hope settling in his eyes.

He looks at you, then back at it, and you, and he’s shaking his head, but he’s smiling, too, grinning more and more the more he thinks about it.

“Alfonse,” you say sharply. “A girl is dead, for gods sakes.”

That sobers him up quickly. For a few short seconds. You can’t actually blame him, though you should. He never knew her. His betrothal to her was a matter of political expediency. Still, the strategists are already cursing the loss of her family’s support. He could show a _little_ more decorum.

“My apologies, father,” he says, his lips twitching.

“You’d best to practice appearing sad,” you advise him. “You’re to attend her funeral tomorrow.”

He nods, regarding you patiently, waiting for what he has to suspect is coming.

“Unfortunately,” you say, idly pushing away the nearest book, “we’ve yet to find another suitable match for you.”

He lights up. You haven’t seen him this happy in ages. He opens his mouth, already talking too fast, fragments of several words and feelings and not a single thought fully formed.

“We _are_ looking,” you say, cutting him off.

It does nothing to dampen his mood. He is almost bouncing, your Alfonse hopping from one foot to the other. You shake your head, and he runs around the table and hugs you again.

“Thank you for telling me, father,” he says.

“You’re not a free man yet,” you grumble.

“I know,” he says, and lets you go.

“I will return for them,” he says, with a loose throwaway gesture at the books, then he dashes out of the room.

Forget an hour. If the castle doesn’t know within the minute…

You’re glad you didn’t tell him everything. He might have floated clean off the parapets. He’ll find out eventually, of course. Of all the things that could have happened. His betrothed had to die. And not a single suitable replacement in the realm.

A few possibilities in Embla, of course. But the day an Askran weds an Emblian, well. That’d be a day for Alfonse’s books of precedent.

So, barring someone else’s betrothed up and dying all of a sudden, your son is likely going to marry that damn Zacharias. Or at least, he’s going to try. One day, one distant, beautiful day in some perfect future, you’ll make it an entire week without thinking that kid is trouble.

You sigh again, and call for the staff and servants that you know have been waiting around to find out what happened. They, at least, have the sense to seem morose about the death of an alliance. They also have the sense to help you with the books. He won’t forget to return them, but you’d still rather he not have to.


End file.
